


Control Issues

by Melle (likeitsstolen)



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Don't mind me I'm just posting old shit, Drug Use, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, No seriously this was written in 2007
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-02-04
Updated: 2007-02-04
Packaged: 2018-02-08 04:07:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1926135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likeitsstolen/pseuds/Melle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For all that Jensen likes to spend his free time rearranging shit in his head, he's had his life planned out perfectly since he was seventeen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Control Issues

**Author's Note:**

> Written originally for Kassie as a birthday fic. Originally posted in 2007 at my LiveJournal.
> 
> There is no porn here, sorry, but I hold out hope that one day I will take all my old shit and revamp it.

_well you walk with your eyes open, but your lips they remain sealed_

Jensen drives his Tahoe the whole time they're shooting the pilot for the same reasons that Dean drives the Impala: control issues. For all that Jensen likes to spend his free time rearranging shit in his head, he's had his life planned out perfectly since he was seventeen. And it's gone according to plan, more or less. He keeps his feet moving, stays out of trouble, listens to his momma. It makes for a pretty steady lifestyle for the most part. And Jared is content to ride shotgun anyway, because he's been lovingly rolling the same jay for the past five minutes.

"Man, if you spill that in my truck I will end you." Jensen says it more to hear himself talk than anything else. He was busy navigating the freeway earlier, and Jared was busy skinning up, hence: no music. It's too late now, they're almost to Rosenbaum's, but it's just too quiet in here without Padalecki's big mouth going. It's been... otherwise occupied. Jensen doesn't know anyone else whose mouth moves so much. Even when Jared's not talking, he's biting at his lips, licking the inside of his cheek, pressing his mouth into a firm line and relaxing it again. Jensen clears his throat, glances over, watching Jared wordlessly moving his thumbs and middle fingers back and forth, back and forth. Streetlights wash over him one by one through the tinted glass and it's almost like watching someone flip a coin over their knuckles; it's mesmerizing and it's easy and it's sexy as hell, and he probably shouldn't be doing it while he's driving, because.

Because Jared's fingers bring it up to his mouth, pink tongue poking out just a little bit to wet it, and really this has been going on since that first read-through together. Jensen is young, and he has a lot of willpower, but right now it's been fourteen days of this straight up and god, he feels like his lungs kind of want to stop. Thin pink lips moving off to the side, mouthing at the back of Jared's right hand, and just.

He breathes in slowly and out again. "Dude, did you just kiss your own hand?" His voice is getting a little creaky around the edges, maybe.

Jared nods and smiles. "Yeah, man, you just ran a yellow light."

What? Jensen checks the rearview. "I did?" And okay, yeah, but.

"Look, you're about to run a red one."

Jensen hits the brakes as smoothly as he can, feeling his heartbeat thud-thudding against his chest, the seatbelt catching, and closes his eyes for a second. Or ten. He opens them when a flint-strike eventually breaks the silence and the soft smell of pot tickles his nose. Those fingers holding the joint up to him are impossibly long, and Jensen swallows. He looks over at Jared's face, at the slow grin that's just pulling up at one corner.

"Here," says Jared. "You're so wound up, man."

For a minute Jensen's hands don't give up their grip on the steering wheel, but he holds Jared's gaze and then he's reaching up, taking the joint in his fingertips. He brings it up to his mouth slowly, and Jared's eyes follow the movement

_watching the jay slip between his lips as he pulls in thick, sticky smoke and then out again, following Jensen's tongue as it darts out in a whisper to bless the tip where Jared's tongue just touched_

before flicking back up to his eyes and letting the grin break all the way through. Jensen grins back, and Jared laughs, slaps him on the back. "Good stuff, am I right?"

Jensen nods, smiling wider. "Yeah." He cracks his window and exhales. Man, he can tell the car and his clothes are already saturated with the shit, but he fucking loves it anyway.

"Dude, take another hit." Jensen does, and then Jared's reaching for it with two long fingers that brush his, and Jensen can almost feel something in the landscape shift, maybe not _right here right now_ but a little further to the north, where he can hear thunder barely kissing the cloudcover, just hinting at rain.

*

Jensen is officially fucking stoned. His mind is dancing around the idea of a beer, or hell, a glass of water, but he'll go get one in a minute. Right now he's way too zoned to even think of moving. The only sound in the room is the snick of the lighter and soft gurgling noises from the bong. He has one of Mike's guitars slung across his lap, and he's trying to play it left-handed. Or, you know. Was trying.

"Man," says a voice in the quiet, so close but so far away. Jensen thinks it's Jared. He looks to his left, eyes stuttering in their movement, tracking infinite points between A and B, and finally his gaze rests on about eleventy feet of jeans, ending in one flip-flop and one bare foot. Jensen thinks it was Jared he heard, but he still can't tell. The foot with the flip-flop on it is pressed flat to the floor, denim worn perfect over knee bent, the other turned on its outside, knee down. Jensen thinks, not for the first time, that for a kid who's almost six-five that boy can fold himself up into some serious origami.

Rosenbaum has been going through what he calls his 'weed phase' since he was in at least the tenth grade. To Jensen, that pretty much qualifies it as a profession and not a phase, but who is he to judge? When there's a professional of Mike's caliber in any group, respect must be given. And Rosenbaum always has the best weed.

Jensen realizes he said that last part out loud.

"I don't keep shit weed in this house, Ackles." Mike responds in normal time, which Jensen almost can't keep up with. It always takes Mike for-fucking-ever to get wasted. "I don't even keep shit weed in my friends' houses." He pauses to take the longest hit in the history of the universe, and blows it out for like three minutes. "I hold no truck with it, motherfucker."

Jared takes in a breath like he's about to say something and then just... forgets, maybe, or anyway stops making progress, like he's realized just in time that his revelation was too complete, that sentences would be wasted on these plebeians and he'll have to come up with an alternative method of communication. Like interpretive dance. Jensen blinks, tilts his head and feels his eyebrows push together through the numb that is his facial region. Jared just continues staring at some unidentifiable matrix of air in front of him for, like, twenty seconds before he finally looks down, and then at everyone else - everyone looking, predictably, at Jared since he seems to be about to speak.

For a moment he just sits there, and Jensen can watch the question asked and answered behind his eyes - _Who are we listening to? Oh yeah, me. Wait... oh._ \- then Jared loses his shit and his whole face crinkles up into this gorgeous heatstroke of a smile, open-mouthed and wheezing out silent laughter. Jensen watches in slow motion as his head falls back kind of reluctantly, inexorably, like the way the top scoop of ice cream always goes over right before it hits the sidewalk, and he's never seen the cleft in Jared's chin from this angle and Jensen watches on as Jared's throat muscles work up and down and his shoulders shake and no sound comes out in itty-bitty bursts until his legs draw up with the force of it because hello, abdominal muscles clenching see? right there where the t-shirt rides up and then his whole sprawling center of gravity is tugged back down to the carpet, feet thudding down first, bringing chest and tucked-in arms and chin down with them as they fall.

Jensen doesn't realize he's holding his breath until Jared sucks in a lungful of air, and then Jensen does too, and wow. Sparks dance in front of his eyes, which works 'cause Jared's face is like watching some kind of West Texas yellow-pink afternoon sky, if the sky had about a billion Colgate teeth and a dorky, honking laugh, and four miles of sun-browned skinny limbs flailing everywhichway.

Christ, Jensen thinks as he feels the smile sort of push its way onto his own face, moving his cheeks up like continental drift mountains, and Jared's eyes are open, still laughing, looking right at him. He hears Tommy choking on his exhale and yeah, even Rosenbaum is giggling because the sight of Jared Padalecki cracking the fuck up for no reason is just, god. Hilarious. Jensen can't, doesn't want to look away. He holds his gaze as Jared rides it out, breath returning almost to normal and he's still looking at Jensen but it's settled down now, into a huge, rumpled, happy grin.

Jensen couldn't look away if he tried.

 

_i got potential, i could be just what you need_

It's like this, right--

1\. Dallas is progressive, but it's still the South.  
2\. San Antonio is no Dallas.

Jensen has always had a love-hate relationship with honesty, and he remembers that this is why he doesn't get close to people. Because open secrets like his always end up common knowledge around the entire set (Tom and Mike), and all it would take would be one comment from the wrong asshole (Tom or Mike) to render all his years of hard work and sacrifice useless.

Because while he may have his aww-shucks face down cold, he's not Lance Bass, the Lovable Loser. Because he's a good dresser, but people won't just shrug it off like they did with Doogie Howser.

Jensen has no idea of Jared's loyalties, and it's damn near impossible to get a bead on what the fucker is thinking at any given time. It could just mean that Jared is amused when he grins all slow like he's doing right now ( _who, me? just waiting for someone to answer the door_ ) but for all Jensen knows, it could mean he's got "the wrong asshole" written all over him.

But they're going to be brothers, right? So he's giving Jared the benefit of the doubt. It's a skill he's only recently picked up, and he's proud of it. It also helps that Jared has busted him with his stash of Mario Badescu, picking up a tube of Ginkgo Mask with no comment other than a raised eyebrow, so.

The door opens and Tommy drags Jensen inside. "Thank Christ you're here," he says, one hand running over his mouth. "Oh, Jared. Hey." He nods at Jared, who waves with one hand and offers Maker's Mark with the other. Tom takes it graciously but glances over at Jensen, who's just noticed the bathroom door open and can vaguely make out one lycra-clad hip gyrating somewhere in the vicinity of the mirror.

Jensen eyes Tommy, who puts his hands up and shakes his head. _Hey man, I tried._ Jen unloads his own case of Molson onto Tom and makes his way toward the bathroom.

Mike is bopping in front of the sink, applying mascara with a scarily expert hand. He's in a sparkly half-shirt, black stretchy pants slung low over his hips, and when he turns and spots them, fake ringlets spill over his shoulder. "Hi guys!" he enthuses, eyes bright. He cranes his head around the door jamb until he can include Jared and Tommy in his stage whisper. "I'm incognito tonight, guys, so _sssshhhh._ " He raises one painted fingernail to his lips, sly smile in place.

Jared moseys up while Jen is inspecting the CD with the powdery platinum credit card on it. Mike gives Jared the once-over. "You wanna bump?" he asks with a lewd thrust of his hips.

It takes Jared a second to find his voice. "Nah, man, 'm good."

"What about you, Jenny?" Mike sidles up to him and Jensen is surprised to find he can blush and wince at the same time. "I know you want a little taste." He's running a fingertip through the piles on the CD, then up the line from his pants to his belly button. Jensen thinks Mikey might even be trying for irony, but Jen can't get a feel for it. He takes a cautious step back, sort of into Jared.

"I'm... a Pisces, dude, that shit makes me way too social." It's like watching a train wreck, and Jensen can't not look at it.

Tommy leans in, drops his forehead on Jen's shoulder. "He thinks he's going out like this, Jensen. Help."

Mike never breaks eye contact with Jensen as he licks his finger and scoops up the trail of coke, then shoves it into Tommy's mouth.

They all gape at him - he's stupidly hot like this, when he's not going for comedy - and Mike glances back and forth knowingly between him and Jared, who has his arm out in front of Jensen in what looks like a subconscious soccer-mom save. Mike drops a way-too-sexy wink in Jensen's direction, and part of Jensen just gives the fuck up.

*

This right here, Jensen thinks, is why cocaine should be evenly distributed throughout a group of people. Also, it says a whole lot about how lovely a person Jensen Ackles really is, that Mike's throat remains, inexplicably, un-crushed.

They're in a place in Davie Village called The Fountainhead, which is apparently some sort of compromise between Michael, who Just Wants to Dance, and Jensen, who wants to hold the thing down and force-feed it Valium until it resembles his friend. So they're out, but they're out in a really, really dark, already gay place.

"Come on," he wheedles. "I'll give you a _hundred dollars_ to suck Tommy's dick." And man, does that just piss Jensen off. He wants to be insulted, but what's he going to say? He's worth three? The problem with doing that is, you're pretty much committing yourself to actually doing the kind of thing that you would pay three hundred dollars for. Plus, that ship sailed long ago. Now Jensen just wants to concentrate on the heat flanking his left side, occasionally bumping knees with him and unconcerned about drawing back.

"Shut up, man," he mumbles, and closes his eyes against the way Mike is actually reaching into the front left side of his pants and drawing fifties and hundreds out of some kind of... panties... thing. Jensen covers his face with his hands.

It's been like this since he and Tommy made it back to the table thirty minutes ago, sweaty from dancing and the blow they just did in the men's room. Jensen's look of betrayal is lost on Tom. At least Mike's not ruffling Jared's hair and calling him Tiny anymore.

"Come onnn, Jenny," Mike sing-songs, and _god_ is he ever an asshole. "It'll be great! My boy Tommy here has the prettiest dick, and Jen, your _mouth,_ man. It'll be better than motherfucking Reese's cups, man." He leans forward and croons so softly that it's almost normal volume. "It ain't like it'd be y'all's first rodeo, Tex."

So much for breaking it to Jared gently.

Jensen cracks a couple of fingers over one eye and stares at Mike. "I'll buy your next pile of coke if you shut the goddamn fuck up. Weren't you here to dance?"

Mike clasps both hands over his chest, bills clutched tight in his palm. "Tommy, darling, take me away. I won't be where I'm not wanted." With that he pushes Tom out of the booth, straightening his clothes. Jen gives him the finger and Mike just blows him a kiss, and then it's just him and Jared again.

Which, wow. Quiet night, huh?

He slowly looks over at Jared, who's watching their progress onto the dance floor. Jensen takes a long pull off his beer and picks at the label, like he's not at all concerned about the impending reaction. Jared turns back to his own bottle and then looks up at Jensen before taking a swig. Grins and wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand. His really, really huge hand.

"You freaked out?" Jen asks quietly.

Jared studies Jensen for a minute, then puts his beer down and wipes his hands on his jeans, leaning back. He looks Jensen in the eye. "Should I be?"

Jensen gives him the bitch face. "Dude."

Jared snorts, smiling wide with his tongue between his teeth. It makes Jen's balls ache. "Yeah, well." He picks his beer up by just the mouth and does the most casual chug Jen's ever seen, then sets the empty back down and looks over at Jensen, eyes kind of watery. His gaze flicks to Jensen's mouth and stutters back up to his eyes as he says, "We waitin' on them, or what?"

And. For all that Jensen likes to spend his free time rearranging shit in his head, he's had his life planned out perfectly since he was seventeen. But he knows, intellectually anyway, that there are times in your life when you can just hear the needle screeching across the vinyl and the party slamming to a halt.

Jen's mouth sort of opens and then closes again. "Sorry?"

Jared leans over and brushes against Jensen as he picks the other beer up, holding it in front of Jen's mouth. Jensen just watches those slitted eyes follow the bottle's movement as Jared uses it to press into Jen's lower lip with intent. "What I'm saying is, you wanna head out. Or we can stay here, whatever. But I've been wanting to fuck your mouth since about May." He shrugs and meets Jen's eyes again. "Tex."

Jensen's dick is about to shame the zipper engineers at Levi's. "Move your ass," he growls, and licks the head of the bottle.

 

_it's off in the distance, somewhere up the road_

Jensen thinks it's pretty fucked up that it's the beginning of winter hiatus, yet he's warmer than he's been in months. They're at Steve's house in LA, and they're on a porch. A big porch, with an honest-to-God porchlight, which is one of those random things that reaches into Jensen's gut and snaps him back home like a rubber band, making him feel every inch of these fourteen hundred some miles. He has the feeling if he sits here long enough watching bugs fly around it, he could make himself believe that Vancouver has been nothing more than a daydream he had during a cold snap.

Chris and Steve are tuning up at the opposite end from where Jared and Jensen are sitting, talking about meeting up in Austin for New Years. Jensen's sister has a place there, but he's only been a couple of times.

A high-pitched squeal sounds from where they're setting up to play, and Jensen only just looks over in time to see the bracelets settling again on Chris's wrist. She's rubbing the spot on her ass where he pinched her, looking both scandalized and besotted. Figures. He raises his beer to Chris in silent toast, and Chris winks.

They launch into some stuff that Jensen thinks is Joel Plaskett, and the party just sort of unfolds around Steve's voice. Jensen leans back and closes his eyes. He can always tell what kind of mood Chris is in by the sets they do, and it's nice to know that he's happy. Not that Chris would ever say anything, but Jensen knows that when they do a whole set of their own stuff, they're working up a new album; when it's Waylon and Willie he's on the rebound; when it's Johnny Cash he's feeling guilty for not going to church. This shit is downright experimental.

It's one of those nights that just sort of rolls along, not getting too crazy or too laid-back, just settling on an even keel. Jen cracks an eye open after a while and nudges Jared with his foot. Jared sticks out his tongue and Jensen gives him the finger.

_Promises, promises,_ say Jared's eyes, and yeah. They're on a slow burn right now, got all night to make good on those. Jensen closes his eyes again and shivers a little when he feels Jared leaning in warm and soft to whisper in his ear.

"Just so you know," he says on little warm puffs of breath over Jensen's earlobe, "I'm driving us home."

Jensen just licks his lips and smiles.

 

 

I have to thank Raz for the read-through and interrupting her rugby game so I could send her pictures of jailbait and youtube links. Seriously, y'all, she's half the reason I do this.


End file.
